


God-given Solace

by textbookchoices



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: The first time it happens, Diarmuid is sick.The barn he and the Mute have taken shelter in for the night is empty of animals but filled with hay nonetheless, and Diarmuid's hands and feet are clumsy as the Mute half-carries him in to lay down on a soft pile of it. The night is cool enough, but his skin is heated and red from fever, his vision a blur. He clutches childishly to the Mute's sleeve, not wanting him to leave.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45
Collections: Flash With Benefits





	God-given Solace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).



> In an AU where the Mute isn't fatally wounded on the beach.

The first time it happens, Diarmuid is sick.

The barn he and the Mute have taken shelter in for the night is empty of animals but filled with hay nonetheless, and Diarmuid's hands and feet are clumsy as the Mute half-carries him in to lay down on a soft pile of it. The night is cool enough, but his skin is heated and red from fever, his vision a blur. He clutches childishly to the Mute's sleeve, not wanting him to leave.

Soft, worried eyes stare down at him, and Diarmuid's breath hitches painfully before starts trying to pull off his too hot, too scratchy robes. "It's too hot," he tries to explain, but that's hardly enough explanation. The heat of the fever _hurts_ , sticky and consuming and sick where it burns through his skin like a burn from lying too long in the direct path of the sun. Diarmuid's fingers clumsily lift the fabric, but it's the Mute who delicately, gently helps him pull the entire thing off, leaving him in nothing but the loincloth tied around his waist. His skin prickled with goosebumps, but still, he felt too hot. 

Too hot and yet he wanted the Mute closer, and he dragged him greedily, selfishly to him, pulling weakly until the Mute acquiesced and laid down next to him, his brows furrowed. Diarmuid rests his head against the Mute's chest, still clothed but for the long opening at the neck. 

Somehow, the soft beating of the Mute's heart helps, and Diarmuid clings tighter, breathing through the discomfort.

"Please," he says, soft and wet against the Mute's chest, "I don't feel good, please."

He lifts an arm, wrapping it around the Mute who thankfully, kindly, wraps his arms around Diarmuid in return, holding on with a soft, gentle strength that speaks of safety and care. 

Diarmuid isn't sure why he opens his mouth against the Mute's neck, but he does, and the taste of his skin is a distraction, a heady thing that makes the heat curl in his stomach in an entirely different way. The Mute's body tenses under his mouth, but he holds on even tighter when Diarmuid begins to thrust against his hip, soft, pitched noises escaping his mouth like breathless cries. 

"Please," he whispers again, begging for release from the heat, the fatigue and the discomfort in his bones.

He doesn't know if he finds it, his mind too muggy and filled with an unfortunate haze to remember the next morning, but he wakes up curled against the Mute's chest, his friends hands pressed softly against his back and stomach, keeping him safe even in sleep.

The guilt churns in his gut for days after, and though the fever breaks soon enough, Diarmuid finds himself jumping at every touch, and turning his face away in shame whenever one of them needs to make their water on the long journey back to the monastery. 

The second time, they've taken shelter near a river--one seemingly free from thieves and warriors and the Sidhe--and Diarmuid, long in need of a wash, takes advantage of the fact to slip off his robe and slide into the chilly water. The Mute is quiet behind him, and Diarmuid does not notice that he's chosen to join him in the water until after the Mute has tugged his shirt over his head and pushed off his trousers to rest in a pile next to his boots and Diarmuid's robe. 

They'd do best to wash those too, but it isn't as though they have any spares to wear while their clothes hang and dry, and Diarmuid's face burns at the idea of sitting around the fire in nothing but the small bits of cloth to cover them.

The Mute looks to the sky, water dripping down his collar, over strong muscles and scar after scar after scar.

Diarmuid doesn't realize he's reaching out to touch until his fingers touch the Mute's chest, pale and soft against his hard, glistened strength. He swallows and looks into the Mute's surprised, dark eyes, but doesn't back away when the Mute takes a step toward him. 

Why should he move away, as if afraid? He could never be afraid of the man in front of him.

Their mouths meet, and Diarmuid sinks into the feeling of the Mute's hands clutching his waist, lifting him up high enough to push back against a river rock, shamelessly pushing his naked thigh between Diarmuid's, nothing but water between them.

The third time they're lying beneath a tree with wide, bare branches, and the stars shine above them as Diarmuid gasps into the Mute's mouth, his rough hand curling around him, touching him, driving him to a sinful need of release and completion. 

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth... moments between them on the journey home, guiltily clawing at Diarmuid's throat whenever the Mute isn't touching him. He's new, of course, to the realities of pleasure like this--pleasure of the flesh, the kind that's only supposed to serve between a man and a woman who have married before God and intend to bring new life to the world through their flesh.

He and the Mute are not--

Love is a tricky idea.

Diarmuid is sure that he loves the Mute; he knows it in the way his heart quickens at the sight of his smile. But the Mute, for all that he's given into the same _physical_ sin that Diarmuid has, he could not feel the same. No, he's serving God with his hands every day, making up for the past sins his body committed at the orders of corrupt, angry men, sins Diarmuid believes to have been long behind them, left in exchange for a new life of kindness and safety and comfort at the monastery.

Diarmuid dreams, one night, the Mute's arms around him, of settling in a small cabin. Of building a fire and skinning a rabbit while the Mute smiled at him from the other side of the yard, brushing down the horse. Their horse, for it could be their cabin, their life together--a soft, gentle one, perhaps even blessed by God if he'd allow them to have it despite the appearance of sin.

They were men, and Diarmuid could not bring a child into the world, but perhaps if they made up for that with hard work and loyalty and prayer. Perhaps--

He wakes up, of course, and understands the silliness of such a dream.

They're nearly back home, and Diarmuid is staring out across that night's fire. He doesn't know what he'll tell the other monks. How can he explain what happened to Ciarán? Rua? To the others--even the Cistercian--and to the relic itself?

How can he confess to what he did?

How can he confess to what he's _still_ doing, night after night, with the Monk, taking the comfort he offers with greed and sinful need. 

What will they think of him?

Of course, he cannot tell them the last--if nothing else, they would separate Diarmuid from the object of his temptations, and Diarmuid already knows well that he couldn't accept it. He wakes in the night still, his heart heavy with the grief of loss and the shame and the guilt of his failure--and the confusion that surrounds all of it, and the shame of being confused when it should have all been so simple. 

There could be worse punishments, for Diarmuid, but for the Mute too, and Diarmuid knows the Mute has had enough punishment in his life. Diarmuid refuses to be responsible for more. 

"Is it odd," Diarmuid murmurs, "that I almost wish we weren't going back?"

The Mute looks surprised, for a moment, and then considering. Diarmuid flushes and shakes his head, looking back at the fire. "I know, we have to. We have to tell them what happened. I just--sometimes I wonder--"

He goes quiet, and then sighs and leans in against the Mute when he feels fingers entangle with his own. 

He feels fingertips at his chin, and he looks up at soft, dark eyes. Heart stuttering again, Diarmuid thinks he's beautiful, and then realizes that the Mute is tipping his head to the side as if in gesture. 

Diarmuid has years of understanding his gestures; his wordless voice. 

We don't have to go back, he's saying, and Diarmuid is stunned to his core.

"You don't have to--" 

Diarmuid closes his eyes and breathes. No. He has to say this. He can't let the Mute protect him forever at the cost of himself.

"You've been kind," Diarmuid says. "And I've tempted you into the same sin that I feel, but you don't have to keep living with it just for--just for me. We can--"

He's cut off by a kiss, rough fingers digging into his hair.

The Mute pulls back, a smile on his lips, and Diarmuid, dazed by it, says, "What?"

But the answer is clear in his eyes, in the curl of his mouth and the soft way his thumb is touching Diarmuid's cheek.

_Oh._

He loves him back. 

Diarmuid lurches forward, laughing into another kiss, a punched out laugh of relief and disbelief and somehow, God-given solace.

For love, of course, cannot be a sin, and somehow, despite it all, despite everything that has happened, God has given him this. 


End file.
